


Everything That's Right at the Wrong Time

by poppetawoppet



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the inevitable plane crash fic</p><p>title from David Cook's "The Last Goodbye"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything That's Right at the Wrong Time

When Wardo wakes, it is cold and dark. He's on his back for some reason, and the stars are clearer than he's ever seen them. He blinks, trying to clear his head.

There is a sharp pain whenever he breathes, and when he tries to lift his head, everything goes white.

"I just saved you from drowning, dickhead, you might want to lie back down before you kill yourself."

Wardo puts his head down, and then Mark is hovering over him. There's a nasty gash on Mark's head, and blood down his cheek. Other than that, he looks tired. And wet. And worried.

"Hit my head."

Mark shakes his head. "We were in a plane crash, moron. You hit everything."

"Plane—"

Then Wardo remembers. The taste of whatever they had drugged him with rises in his throat. He remembers Mark yelling something about a ransom, and then the turbulence. The last thing Wardo sees is Mark calmly telling him to buckle up, and Dustin flying across the plane before everything went black.

"Dustin."

Mark shakes his head. "Don't know. I could only find you."

Wardo nods slowly, ignoring the pain for a moment.

"Now what?"

Mark shrugs. "I don't know. Hated camping. I'm a computer nerd, not a survivalist."

"Well, you must be okay, if you're already making Star Trek jokes."

Mark gives Wardo one of his awkward half smiles. Wardo closes his eyes for a moment. At least if he was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, it was with Mark.

"You can't sleep. I remember that much."

"Do you know anything but computer talk?"

Mark blinks at him for a minute. "Not really."

"Then we're in trouble."

"I'm sure I'll think of something."

Wardo looks back up at the sky, hearing the ocean for the first time. He wonders if Mark will bring up the scene before the airport. The one where Mark practically begs Wardo to stay, and Wardo leaves anyway.

Instead Mark talks about milk prices, and the possibility of going back to Harvard. Wardo lets it go, because he knows Mark isn't ready yet. They have time.

*

Mark has never really had to fend for himself. He has only just realized, with Wardo still unable to get up.

On a normal day, Mark would eat some of Dustin's breakfast, code until class, Wardo would make sure he ate lunch, then more coding and class, and then group snack/dinner. Before college, his mom took care of him.

It sort of frightens Mark when he first realizes he doesn't even know where to begin.  
But after sitting and drawing plans out, he's managed a decent make-shift shelter, and has explored the tiny island as much as he could.

He's currently sharpening a stick with a shard of glass that's washed ashore, thinking of trying to catch a fish. He has no idea how he's going to cook it, but it's keeping him distracted from Wardo's pale face.

Mark doesn't know what to say, He never has, really. But the more he looks at Wardo, the more he realizes he's sort of fucked up a lot of his life. But he doesn't know how to change anything, so he sort of ignores it until it goes away. Or blows up in his face. Either way.  
Wardo coughs again, making a half moaning sound.

"Thirsty."

"Yeah, me too. Make it rain."

"Not likely," Wardo whispers. "Suppose we could drink our own pee."

"Not that thirsty."

Wardo sighs, then looks at Mark. "Well—"

"Eduardo Saverin. That's just gross."

Wardo grins. "I didn't say anything."

"Fuck off."

"Made you laugh."

"Asshole."

Mark is already laughing, despite the insult. Wardo's always been able to do that.

"Still thirsty."

"Stop talking, then, Wardo."

"I want to get up."

"Not yet. You still get too dizzy."

Wardo sighs again. "Any signs of food?"

"I could attempt to catch fish, but I'm not sure how I would cook it?"

"We're going to die out here, aren't we?"

"I'm sure your parents are out looking for you. Or the Winklevii are, wanting their share."

"Maybe they're the ones who put us out here."

Mark has considered the possibility, but for some reason, he's always thought the Winklevii had a more defined sense of honor than that. Then again, with the new contract, things could be getting serious. With that reminder, Mark realizes that Wardo doesn't know yet, that Mark has betrayed everything they've had.

Mark turns to the setting sun. "I'm going to try rubbing the sticks together again."

"'Kay. Hey Mark?"

Mark looks back. Wardo is pale, almost a ghost of himself. "Yeah?"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it when I get back."

Mark isn't so sure. He doesn't even know if they will get back.

*

Wardo manages to walk a bit before becoming exhausted. He's almost certain he's broken a few ribs and his head is still swimming. But he's tired of lying around. He's worried about Mark, worried that something has happened, and Mark is backing away so it will hurt less.

(Wardo isn't stupid, he knows Mark's habits better than his own.)

"What in the hell are you doing?"

Mark looks completely different: he's red and thin and covered in scratches, a refugee of months rather than days. His eyes are determined and focused, and there's a sense of pride about him that Wardo has only ever seen in association with Facebook.

"You made a fire," Wardo says.

"I did," Mark says, and a grin creeps across his face.

"Better than Facebook?"

Something crosses Mark's face.

"Mark. Even if we do get off this tiny hellhole, you won't be able to avoid me forever."

Mark sits in the sand. Wardo limps over, gingerly setting himself down.

Mark looks at the tiny fire.

"There's a new division of shares."

Wardo blinks. "Okay."

Mark says nothing and continues to look away.

"Oh. Oh fuck me."

"I—"

Mark rubs his face, and looks at Wardo, his eyes red.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing okay? I just have my brain wrapped around this one big idea, and I just don't think about anything else, and I let other people take care of things for me, and it's stupid, because I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, but it also means I don't have to deal with emotional shit, which you know I can't handle, and don't handle very well, and when I saw the new contract I didn't think of anything because you let me go and you were in New York and not with me and I fucked it up."

Wardo blinks again. "I didn't let you go."

Mark turns to him. "Here's a check Mark, go have fun."

"I was trying to let you be creative!"

"Maybe you were pushing me away!"

"Oh, like you haven't pushed me away too! Jesus, Mark, it was supposed to be a gesture of my faith, not a chance for you to just let me go!"

"Well, I'm sorry. I'll fix it when we get home, okay? I don't want to let you go."

Wardo doesn't even realize he's crying until Mark is beside him, wiping at his face.

"Dumbass girl, crying like that."

"You're crying too."

Mark looks at him, his hands framing Wardo's face. "Fuck this."

Then he's kissing Wardo, softly at first, then as if they'll never kiss again. Wardo is trying to breathe, but he doesn't want to, because this is all some sort of dream.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," Mark says, burying his head in Wardo's chest and shaking. Wardo puts his arms around Mark, holding as tight as he can.

*

"They said the helicopter only found us because the transponder happened to land nearby."

"You look pretty good for being out in the sun for six days," Sean says.

Mark nods. "I learned a lot about myself. About what I've been doing."

"Really?"

Mark looks up. He needs to be calm.

No.

Old Mark would have been calm. Disdainful even.

New Mark…

New Mark was angry. Sad. Furious.

He walks across the room, slamming Sean into the wall.

"I look pretty good? You have got to be kidding me. I'm sunburned, underweight, and grieving, you heartless bastard. What's more, I suspect that you enlisted some of your gangster/money hungry friends to kidnap me and my friends in order to live your fucking lifestyle the way you wanted. To take everything that I've done and ruin it like everything else you've put your hands on."

"I—"

"What you are going to do is shut up. I'm tired of having people take care of me because they think I'm too distracted, or that I can't take care of myself. You know what I learned on that island? I can make fucking fire, Sean Parker. I can catch a goddamn fish. But I can't save the life of the only person who saw me for me. And I don't know how to handle that. So I'm going to need you to vacate my presence, and if I see you again, I may just have to learn whether or not I'm capable of killing someone too."

"But I have shares—"

"Not anymore. Those shares are Wardo's."

"Wardo is dead."

Mark pushes Sean away. "They're his. Or his family's. But I want nothing of you near anything of mine. Ever."

"I gave—"

"Go."

Sean looks at Mark once before running out of the room.

Mark looks at the door before shutting it. He sits at the table, looking at the new contracts. He traces Wardo's name over and over.

_"Wardo? Wardo?"_

Mark can hear his breathing, ragged and thick.

Wardo's eyes are open, but glassy. His head is hot to the touch.

"Just a little longer please," Mark says, squeezing Wardo's hand.

Nothing changes, the ocean in the distance, Wardo's breathing, heavy and low.

Then a squeeze back, faint, but strong.

"Love you too, asshole," Mark says, laughing.

Wardo stops breathing sometime in the night. Mark tries, very briefly, to make him breathe again.

It doesn't work.

Mark walks away from the shelter. He doesn't know how to handle this. He's never known, and it's like he's breaking. He sits with his head between his knees, tracing Wardo's name in the sand.


End file.
